get yourself into mischief and your friends into as much trouble as
possible." Had I finished my remark, she would not have thanked me.

"Well," said the girl, beginning her laggard narrative, "after we saw--saw
him at Overhaddon, you know, I went to the village on each of three
days--"

"Yes, I know that also," I said.

"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned home
I felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day I
found him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by his
horse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink."

"A characteristic of her sex," I muttered.

"What did you say?" asked the girl.

"Nothing."

She continued: "He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but I
knew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if he
were glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see him
that I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must have
heard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to have
something he wished to say to me."

"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you," said I, again
tempted to futile irony.